The Gilded Rune

Chapter Two

Torrin strode, naked, into the glacial pool in the temple’s chamber of healing. He winced as the numbingly cold water reached his genitals, and shivered as he descended the steps into chest-deep water that took his breath away. “Sharindlar,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Lady of Mercy, I beg a boon: cleanse me.”

He ducked underwater, his shivers bone-deep. Praying silently, he tipped his head back and held himself underwater with powerful strokes of his arms. Through the water above him, he saw the red-robed cleric gesture, one of her hands sweeping across the water, palm down. A sheet of blood red flame spread across the surface of the pool, obscuring everything else from sight. Torrin counted one heartbeat, two, three-and then stood upright. Flames flickered across his hair, face, and shoulders-warming but not burning him-and spread down his body as he strode forward to the edge of the sacred pool. The sweet scent of burning frankincense filled his nose as he climbed the stairs and stepped out, leaving wet footprints that danced with tiny red flames. Then the cleric clapped her hands together, and the flames on both his body and the pool went out with a loud hiss-extinguishing his worries along with them. Whatever illness Kendril had been suffering from, any lingering taint that had rubbed off on Torrin was gone.

He bowed before the statue of the goddess that dominated his side of the room. Twice as tall as a dwarf and carved from a single piece of fire opal, it depicted the goddess dancing, her red robes swooshing to the side as she spun.

He rose from his bow. His body prickled, both hot and cold at once, as he waited for the Merciful Maiden to pronounce the tithe that would be demanded for the cleansing. At the same time, he snuck a look at her.

The priestess looked as though she were in her late teens, but with dwarves, who aged much more slowly than humans did, appearances were deceiving. She was likely in her late twenties, closer to Torrin’s age. And she was quite beautiful. Dark eyes, a full, curvy figure that filled out her robe, a dimpled chin, and a few stray black ringlets that had escaped the blue headscarf holding back her hair. Sharindlar’s silver disk rested gently on the portion of her breasts not covered by her robe.

It wasn’t generally known, outside the dwarf clans, that the goddess Sharindlar’s second, secret aspect was fertility. The Merciful Maiden was naked under that robe. And she was looking at Torrin far more directly than she needed to.

“Fifty Anvils,” she announced.

Torrin blinked, startled out of his sidelong appraisal. Fifty gold pieces! How was he to get his hands on that much coin? The only thing he had left of value, after paying for the runestone, was his mace. And he wasn’t about to part with that. The magic of the mace was what had led him to discover who he really was. He’d rather part with one of his arms.

Despite his consternation, he kept his composure. “Done,” he agreed. “Although I’ll need some time to raise the coin.”

“You have until Midsummer Night,” she replied.

Torrin groaned inwardly. Midsummer wasn’t that far off. If it wasn’t for his human body, he’d have been given as much time as he needed to pay the tithe. Quite possibly, he wouldn’t have had to pay it at all.

“I so swear.” Torrin clapped his right arm across his chest, his fist over his heart, and spoke the sacred oath. “My word is my shield,” he quoted. Then, with a grin, he added, “Without it, I am naked.”

“Indeed you are, Torrin Ironstar. But your words wear a pretty costume.”

Torrin’s eyebrows rose. She’d used his dwarf name! Was it just his imagination, or did he see an appraising look in her eye?

“Perhaps you’ll honor me with a dance at the Midsummer Festival?” he ventured to say. “It will be Fullmoon, after all.”

The Merciful Maiden didn’t answer. She pulled a thin strand of blue silk ribbon from her pocket and wrapped it around Torrin’s left wrist, tying its ends off in a knot. She’d tied it a little too tightly-likely distracted by regions that lay further south.

“A reminder,” she told him.

“Of my promise to dance with you?” he asked, smiling.

“Of your debt, and the trust the temple has extended to you.”

Torrin stroked his full red beard, purposefully drawing her attention to the silver hammers tied into its braids. “You mistrust me, because of this human body that I wear,” he said. “But I need no magical compulsions to seek you out a second time.”

She made no reply to his banter.

“Could you tell me your name?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I’d like to deliver the tithe to you in person. Prove to you I’m a dwarf who pays my debts.”

She stared at him a moment before answering. She was coy. He liked that.

“Maliira,” she said. “Clan Gallowglar.”

She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Or, perhaps, to do something. Torrin glanced around the pool room, which was empty save for the two of them. A soft rain had begun to fall through the portion of the ceiling that was open to the sky; it pattered on the water behind him. A murmur of voices echoed down the corridors leading to the temple’s guest rooms, hinting that the privacy they shared was fleeting. But the way she was looking at him… Had the stories he’d heard about the Merciful Maidens really been true? Some dwarf women had a taste for the exotic, after all.

Footsteps sounded from one of the corridors. Maliira turned in that direction. “Another supplicant is coming,” she said. “You should leave now, Torrin Ironstar.” She gestured at the corridor that led to the room where he’d left his clothes and equipment, then turned her back on him.

Torrin nodded to himself. Patience. That was what the goddess was demanding of him. He slipped into the corridor that led to his change room, casting one last, longing glance back over his shoulder at Maliira.

Her back was to him. She was busy greeting the next visitor to Sharindlar’s sacred pool. Torrin saw that it was Ambril, a cousin of Eralynn, the woman who’d spoken in Torrin’s favor when he’d first applied to join the Delvers. Ambril was in the final month of her pregnancy. Her belly was so distended she had to lean back, hands on hips, to counterbalance the weight as she waddled into the room. Twins, the midwives had said, but whether girls or boys-or one of each-was still a matter of much debate.

It was no surprise to see Ambril in the temple. Ever since learning she was pregnant, she had imagined herself to have one ailment or another, and had made trips to a shrine at least once a tenday. Her husband, Haldrin, had gritted his teeth each time he’d opened his coin pouch, but he indulged Ambril, just the same. Likely the thinness of his pouch was what had caused Ambril to seek out blessings at such a lesser temple, outside of Eartheart proper.

Torrin made his way to the change room, all thoughts of the lovely cleric washed from his mind. He whispered a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t run into Ambril before his cleansing, when he still had the taint of disease upon him.

The gods had just sent a sobering reminder of how important Torrin’s visit to the temple had been. Whatever Kendril had been afflicted with might have been passed not only to the living, but also to those generations of dwarves yet to be born.

Torrin pushed open the doors of the Delver’s Roost and strode into the room, ducking under the heavy wooden ceiling beams that were just at his forehead height. The curtains on the far wall were drawn-as always-across the window, hiding what would otherwise be a spectacular view of East Rift and the Underchasm beyond. Delvers were a secretive bunch and liked to keep their doings from prying eyes.

The other Delvers looked up from their maps and ale glasses, and a familiar rustle of whispers broke out in Torrin’s wake. One fellow, whose red face suggested he’d had a little too much ale, rose to his feet, slung his beard over his shoulder, and stepped into Torrin’s path. “What’s this?” he asked loudly. “Has our order adopted a pet human?”

Torrin bit back his anger. He turned slightly, so the fellow could see his backpack. “My apologies,” he told the other Delver. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t read. Shall I tell you what rune is on my pack? It’s a ‘D.’ You must know what that means, since there’s one on your pack, as well.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. “A beard and pretty bracers don’t make a dwarf.”

Torrin stared pointedly at the ruby set into the pommel of the dagger the other Delver wore on his forearm. “Nor does a pretty blade make a sharp wit,” he replied. “Sharpening it would be a better use of your time; you’ve clearly dulled it on me.”

Some of the dwarves at nearby tables chuckled. The face of the Delver who’d confronted Torrin grew even redder.

“Let him be, Nardor,” one of the others at his table called out. “He’s not worth your time.”

“You’re right,” Nardor said. “I’ve ale to drink.” Muttering one last insult into his beard, he returned to his table.

Torrin smiled at his fellow Delvers as he continued through the room, but despite the fact he’d held his own, he still felt the sting of the fellow’s taunt. One day, he’d just like to walk into the Delver’s Roost and not be challenged-just walk in, unnoticed and unremarked upon, like any other Delver.

An ale would help, he decided. He made his way to the everful cask at the center of the room, lifted his ceramic cup down from the hooks above-most of which held mugs of pewter or etched glass with gilded rim-and held it under the spigot. Frothing ale rose in his mug. When it was full he carefully turned the spigot back. He fished out the last coins in his pocket, counted out ten copper bits, and tossed them into the money jar.

He sniffed. The room smelled better than it had. Two months before, Torrin’s friend Eralynn had been blamed for breaking the spigot-an unfortunate occurrence that had flooded the room ankle-deep in ale. The bottom edges of some of the wall maps had been damaged, but fortunately the maps were only copies of common views of the East Rift and the surrounding lands. The flood hadn’t done any real harm, other than lending a musty odor to the carpet, but it had taken more than a tenday to dry the room out. And the other Delvers had yet another reason to whisper about Eralynn behind their beards, gossiping about how “unlucky” she was. They were always commenting on her spellscarred hands. Useful though the magic a spellscar granted might be, few among the Delvers were willing to overlook the fact that the “taint” on Eralynn’s hands was the same blue fire that had almost torn the world apart, nearly a century before.

No matter how Torrin had tried, he hadn’t been able to convince them that the flooded room wasn’t Eralynn’s fault, that it had been mere coincidence she’d been the last to use the keg the night it broke. The other Delvers, however, had listened with stoppered ears. Had Delvemaster Frivaldi himself come to Eralynn’s defense, it likely wouldn’t have made much difference. The others had already made up their minds that the flood was Eralynn’s fault-just as they’d decided, years before, that she’d been responsible for her delving partner’s death.

Torrin carried his mug to the table where the Delvemaster sat. The head of the local chapter of Delvers was one hundred and thirty-five years old with a waist-length beard, but he had a boyish look about him, just the same. His unruly black hair kept falling over his eyes, and he flipped it back with an impatient head toss. His eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth that threatened to bubble out of him at any moment.

Torrin repressed a pang of jealousy. With his human body, he’d be lucky to see eighty summers, let alone two or three hundred.

As Torrin approached, Frivaldi set down the blacksmith’s puzzle he’d been toying with, raised his slender fingers to his temples, and closed his eyes. “Say nothing, say nothing-yes, there it is,” he intoned. “I can hear your thoughts clearly now: ‘I’ve located it at last, Delvemaster Frivaldi. The Soulforge. All I need is the coin to equip an expedition.’ ” Frivaldi opened his eyes. “Am I right?” he asked.

“Close,” Torrin said. His mouth broke into a beard-splitting grin. “What I have found is a runestone that will teleport me directly to the Soulforge. May I join you?”

The Delvemaster nodded.

Torrin unslung his pack and settled on the three-legged stool across from Frivaldi. He pulled out the runestone Kendril had sold him. After glancing around to ensure that none of the others were looking, he unwrapped it and set it down carefully on the table between them.

The Delvemaster leaned forward and examined the stone. “Are you sure this runestone is what you think it is?” he asked. “Those runes say ‘earth magic.’ It looks more like something a wizard would use to summon an elemental spirit.”

Torrin shook his head. “It’s teleportation magic. The man who sold it to me said so. Ancient magic, the like of which we don’t see today.”

“Ancient?” Frivaldi said as he sat back. “Those scratches look fresh. Almost as if someone made them deliberately, to make the stone look older.” He pushed the runestone back across the table. “How much did you pay for it?”

“Every coin I had.”

“Ah.”

“I just need to know how to use the runestone,” Torrin continued as he wrapped it up again and tucked it back into his pack. “A loremaster can tell me that. If our order could foot the bill, I could pay back the coin. Eventually. I know I’m onto something this time. This stone is special. I can feel it.”

Frivaldi sighed.

Disappointment settled on Torrin’s shoulders like a heavy stone. “You’re going to say no, aren’t you?” he asked.

Frivaldi smiled. “Not necessarily.” The Delvemaster picked up the tangle of interconnected wrought iron loops he’d been playing with. It was the most complicated blacksmith’s puzzle Torrin had ever seen: close to two dozen different rings, loops, twisted bars, and triangles, all interlocking. Frivaldi, however, undid it in a matter of moments, reducing the puzzle to a simple chain.

He peered past the chain at Torrin. “Got it?” he asked.

“Almost,” Torrin said-a word that was about as close to the truth as mud was to a diamond. “You went a little fast.”

“Think you can do it?” Frivaldi asked.

Torrin nodded, not wanting to admit otherwise.

Frivaldi clanked the pieces back together, resetting the puzzle, and put the tangled mass on the table between them. “I’m going to make you an offer. Untangle that, and I’ll give you the coin you need to pay for the loremaster.”

Torrin’s pulse quickened. “You’re serious?”

Frivaldi smiled. “Have you ever known me to say something I don’t mean?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Torrin said with a grin. He picked up the puzzle and worked the pieces back and forth, back and forth, pursing his lips ever tighter as the right combination continued to elude him. At one point he thought he had it-six of the center pieces fell apart from the rest to form a linked chain-but the next twist brought them back together again.

He persevered, his ale forgotten, only dimly aware that Frivaldi had risen to refill his own mug. Frivaldi returned to the table and sat down again, his arms folded across his chest. Torrin noted that a handful of other Delvers had followed. He heard them talking softly behind him, and the clink of coins changing hands. His determination grew as he realized they were wagering on the outcome. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and dripped onto the table. He kept working at the puzzle, and working at it, but at last he realized it was no use. He threw the clanking mass down on the table in disgust.

The other Delvers laughed or groaned, depending upon the bet placed, and coin changed hands. As they drifted back to their seats, Frivaldi uncrossed his arms and picked up the puzzle.

“Go easy on yourself, Torrin,” the Delvemaster said. “This puzzle is something even the most deft-fingered rogue would have trouble with. It took me years to learn it.”

“You knew I’d fail,” Torrin said.

“I knew it was highly likely. More to the point, I hoped you’d learn that life rarely offers us instant, easy solutions to the problems we encounter. That was something I had to learn the hard way by trial and error-and some of them were expensive errors.”

Frivaldi set the puzzle aside and took a sip of his ale. “Did I ever tell you about Durin, and the very first delve I partnered with him on, more than a century ago?”

Torrin nodded. It was Frivaldi’s favorite story. “Many times.”

“I thought he was a plodding old fool,” Frivaldi said. “All those stupid acronyms. Did you know he wrote an entire chapter of the Delver’s Tome-the one on standard delving procedures?”

“Yes. Basics of Reconnoitering and Exploration. BORE. The chapter you’re always quoting from.”

“What I didn’t realize, back then, was that his acronyms were deliberately ridiculous. They stick in the mind better, that way.”

“You also said you refused to heed them.”

“That’s true. And I’m still just as impatient as I ever was. But I don’t expect instant solutions, the way I once did. And when I delve, I always make sure I partner with someone who delves like Durin did. Someone slow and plodding, who thinks things through at least three times before proceeding-and then pauses to think them through again.” Frivaldi raised both hands, palms up, and moved them up and down, mimicking the motion of a scale. “It balances things. Quick and daring, versus methodical and cautious. Dugmaren lends his blessing to both kinds of Delvers. There’s a reason we have each, within our ranks.”

Torrin sighed. “The only trouble is, I don’t have a delving partner,” he said. “Nobody’s willing to commit to my quest.”

“Not even Eralynn?” the Delvemaster asked.

Torrin shook his head. “One day, I’ll convince her. But for now, she’s… too busy with her own delves.”

“Perhaps you could join other delves,” Frivaldi said. “I’m sure there’s more than one among us who’d be pleased to have a partner so willing to take on a challenge. They know you’re just as committed to the Order of Delvers as any dwarf. Loyal as a shield brother.” He glanced around the room, then nodded at a gray-bearded dwarf sitting next to the curtained window. “Dorn, for example, could use some help. He’s hoping to find the tomb of Velm Dragonslayer. That’s a quest that will take more than one swing of the hammer.”

Torrin shook his head. Why couldn’t the Delvemaster understand? “No other delve will teach us as much about our history,” he said with dogged insistence. “The Soulforge is where it all began-the portal through which the dwarf race entered Faerun. It can tell us everything about the origins of our people.”

“Lesser finds are also worthwhile,” said Frivaldi. “Every artifact we uncover, every scrap of lore, is a piece of the larger puzzle.”

“It will take more than ‘scraps’ to make the others overlook this,” Torrin replied, gesturing at his human body. “Unless I find the Soulforge, I’ll always be among the second rank.”

Frivaldi paused, as if weighing his words. “You’ll still be human, Torrin. And that means you’ll always be in the second rank, no matter how spectacular your delves.” He took a sip of ale. “Have you ever considered, Torrin, the fact that you might have deliberately chosen your ‘sacred quest’ for the very reason that it is impossible to achieve?”

Torrin clenched his teeth. Frivaldi might be the Delvemaster, but that was bordering on an insult. “I will succeed, this time. The Soulforge-”

“Is in Moradin’s domain.” Frivaldi said sharply, cutting him off. “How else would the god reforge our souls, if it weren’t?”

“Begging your pardon, Delvemaster, but you’re wrong. The Soulforge is here, on Faerun. If you read the ancient sagas-”

“Yes, yes, Torrin. I’ve heard your ‘evidence’ before.”

“And one day,” Torrin persisted, “I’m going to find it.”

Frivaldi sighed. “I see more than a little of Durin in you, Torrin. You’ve got a stubborn vein running through you a league wide, and as hard as granite. Maybe you are what you claim to be, after all.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you to think about what I’ve just said. In the meantime, I must go and prepare for tonight’s Council.”

“The Deep Lords are meeting tonight?” Torrin asked.

Frivaldi nodded.

“What’s it about?” Torrin added. “Are the drow massing at our gates? Has spellfire boiled up out of the Underchasm?” The retort bordered on rudeness, but Torrin was feeling more than a little petulant, after the blunt tone that the Delvemaster had taken with him a moment before.

“Hopefully nothing so serious as that,” Frivaldi said with a laugh. “I’ve only been told that a problem has arisen, and that the Lord Scepter has ordered the heads of each of the city’s guilds and orders to attend. You know as much as I do, at this point.” With that, he took his leave.

Torrin brooded over his empty ale cup, wondering how he’d ever scrape together enough coin to pay a loremaster. As he stared at the table, he suddenly realized that Frivaldi had forgotten something. “Delvemaster Frivaldi!” he called, turning. “Your puzzle!”

Too late. The Delvemaster was gone.

Torrin poked at the links, wondering if the Delvemaster had left the puzzle behind on purpose. Was he trying to tell Torrin that the answer to his puzzle was right in front of him, all tangled together? That if he just kept working at it, he’d solve the puzzle of the runestone on his own?

“Trial and error,” Torrin said, giving the puzzle another poke.

One link shifted against another, and a bar slid out of place. But if the puzzle was any closer to a solution, Torrin wasn’t able to see it.